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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391339">Moonlit Dunes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms'>pilotisms</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Boba Fett is Exhausted, Eventual Smut, F/M, How Boba Survived, Major Character Injury, Porn With Plot, Reader-Insert, Scavenger!Reader, Set post-ROTJ, Tatooine Culture (Star Wars), The Great Pit of Carkoon spits up the local Bounty Hunter, loss of limb</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:53:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391339</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was dead.</p><p>You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always listen — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.</p><p>Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.</p><p>Little did you know one of the Galaxy's most infamous bounty hunters was still alive out there — and you were about to stumble right across him. </p><p>(Set directly after Return of the Jedi)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Boba Fett/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Moonlit Dunes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>it's bucketfucker hours, pals.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="">
    <p>In all your years spent drifting about the land of Tatooine, you’ve found many things in the dunes.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Rare racing pod parts that had been discontinued after years of upgrades... Discarded weaponry, no doubt used for something more nefarious than Bantha hunting... and many, many skulls, sentient <em>and </em>otherwise.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Such comes with the life of a scavenger — live off the land and the things buried deep; harvest trinkets of lives long since forgotten in the ever-changing tides of glittering sand.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>However, never in your life —  in all the days spent beneath the twin brother suns —  have you ever found someone <em>alive</em> in the dunes.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Until today, that is.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>You should have known venturing North of Mos Eisley was a bad idea. After all, the plains beyond the spaceport were ridden with starved sarlacc pits. But, with Tanto — the resident Junk Boss — down your throat about catching up on your few owed debts, you’d decided to weigh the risk and trek on towards the looming beast on the horizon: the Great Pit of Carkoon. With any luck, you’d be able to scavenge what little undigested pieces the massive creature had belched back up — maybe some Gamorian armor, or a blaster or two — after one of Jabba’s usual <em>disposal runs. </em></p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Ah, Jabba.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was <em>dead</em>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always <em>listen</em> — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Not that any of that mattered — because dwelling on some fantastical retelling of a lie by Frokop Golp, the resident drunk swindler, wasn’t going to keep you fed. You were hoping that at the least, the part about one of Jabba’s sail barges going down by the Great Pit of Carkoon wasn’t a lie. Then, you could maybe find a few transistor coolant coils...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The dawning realization that you were betting another day’s ration portion on a spun half-truth embellished by the local drunkard hits you as your dewback, a kindly older male you’d named Scud, finally reaches the crest of the highest dune overlooking the Carkoon wastes. For a moment, as you squint into the setting sun, you wonder if this is even going to be worth it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You sigh, adjusting the light linen face covering over your nose and mouth, and gently urge Scud forward.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>No use in dwelling. You’re already <em>here</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Hup.”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As you near, the wreckage seems to have been picked over completely. Scud plods slowly towards the wreck, tail swatting cautiously as the sarlacc a few meters ahead gives a low hiss at the vibrations riling it awake through the sand. You rock with the slow canter, one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other moving to reach behind you to your pack.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There rests a longspear — the top is crowned with the head of a gaderffii. You’d made it ages ago, well before your fifteen birthday, and it had become as much as a steadfast companion as Scud himself. With a flick and a satisfying click, the longspear extends from it’s compacted state. Resting the butt end against your forearm as Scud continues his meandering pace, you run the spear tip through the sand to your left.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>No give.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The dunes creating a wall around the beast’s mouth stand strong. Over the large ridge, and a handful of meters away, tentacles swing eagerly through the air like malicious little whips, hungry for their next meal. The hulking beast, well over 10,000 years old, knows you’re here now — the desperate moan from it’s gaping maw is enough of an indication of that fact.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For now, keeping your distance and guiding Scud towards the barge, you’re safe.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The party barge had certainly seen better days — seems like a bolt from the main gun had ruptured a fuel line below the deck. Half submerged in an encroaching dune, you’re not surprised to be greeted by the foul stench of sun-rotting corpses as you hop down from Scud. Your boots, made of stretched and tanned Bantha hide, kick up a cloud of dust when you land.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Even with the twin suns beginning to set, the sand is hot.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There are footpaths leading to the barge, partially washed away by the wind pulling the sand closer to the mangled helm of the ship. Patting Scud’s neck as you pass, you grip your staff tightly — one tap of the durasteel spear to the twisted hole in the starboard side sends a scattering hiss of a pack of womp rats caught lounging in the evening shade. Carefully, you duck beneath the warped siding and over the lip of metal, eyes flicking around the cavernous sail barge.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The engine room is where you find yourself… or, well, what’s <em>left</em> of it. The engine has since bottomed out of the barge, no doubt laying in the dunes a few meters away. The smell of propulsion liquid burns in your nostrils, even with your white linen head-covering wrapped tight across your face.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You move on, hauling yourself towards the engine and grabbing two of the smaller propulsion pistons from the transmission. You swing your staff across your shoulder. The strap digs into your neck as you lean into the engine and try to disconnect the main hydraulic line from the engine part.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s a part of you, small and girlish, that remembers being scared of dark wreckages like this when you were younger. The terrifying scenario of stumbling into a krayt dragon’s nest used to play over and over in your head; and even now, the irrational little thought nags the back of your mind like a bite from a sand flea. What was rumbling beneath the sand, ready to make you its next meal?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In reality, the most likely scenario would be Tusken scouts roughing you up over encroaching on their territory.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Scud, though, you trusted enough to give holler at the sight of another being — skittish was one of his best traits, especially when sometimes the biggest danger out here in the dunes (aside from sarlaccs) was <em>other sentients. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If the Kiqan tribe spotted you this far out? At worst, you’d lose some of the scavenged parts from earlier in the day as a barter. The Kiqan, the tribe local to this region, knew well enough that the majority of scavengers meant well. Unlike some of the tribes native to the Western lands, the Kiqans have come to terms with the traffic coming in and out of Mos Eisley.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Their chief, a broad and strong woman called Rhaza’hoq, led a clan of twenty Tusken men and women. On more than one occasion, you’d crossed paths with her — you’d come to recognize the womp rat jaw as a part of her head covering and a pelt of bantha donning her shoulders. Though their native tongue felt wrong to you, like prying dry sounds right from your throat, you’d <em>tried</em> to apologize for your trespass.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That seemed to have been enough respect garnered for the chief to allow you to pass through the Bo’mar Flats in peace. You’d even offered up an armful of rifle components as a gesture of good faith — one you haven’t regretted since.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If they were to catch you here, you’d lose a good lump sum of money. The two battered sheets of durasteel strapped to the side of Scud, each four feet by four feet, would catch a fair price at the Junkyard in Mos Eisley. So, you quietly resign your attempt to dislodge the third propulsion piston and shoulder the two others. Your sack swings heavily against your hip as you plant your boot on the lip of the engine and reach through the hole the ignition blast caused in the floor.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Almost as immediately as you haul yourself up do you regret it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The smell is <em>wretched</em>, and as you cough and gag you can’t help but recoil in disgust.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your arrival on the main floor of the sail barge brings with it the cacophonous sound of cave beetles wings; the insects scatter as you press your forearm to your face — you’re left only to stare in horror at the sight before you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jabba Desilijic Tiure was <em>very dead. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The infamous Hutt is little more than a snack for the various animals who have come and gone from the wreckage, now. Reduced only to a rotting mess of flesh and bones, you feel the swell of bile creep up into your throat as you tear your gaze away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>“Gods above,”</em> you heave, coughing loudly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That’s when you hear <em>it.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A weak sound.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A strangled moan.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Small, quiet, and nearly nothing but a whimper.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For a moment, your muscles seize up so tightly that you're left holding your breath — was that you? Had that sound slipped from your throat the moment you’d let your eyes slip to the open windows along the starboard side of the ship, overlooking the Great Pit beyond the dune ridge?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Then, you see <em>him</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s the single weak raise of a gloved hand in the dirt that spurs you into motion.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Scud, too, in that moment must have realized you both weren’t alone — he gives a great baying moan as you scramble, slipping through the whole and back down the engine. You scale it with ease, staff swung over your shoulder at the ready the moment your boots hit the ground.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You dart out into the sun, escaping the festering wreck, and bolt towards what you had previously thought was just a mangled, twisted piece of a rear booster. Making your way up the rising dune, you groan and push your muscles to reach what you now recognized as a destroyed jetpack — and beneath it, <em>a man. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your spear greets his body first, rounded butt end planting itself beneath his side and with one good nudge, rolling him over.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That’s when you realize he is very much alive and he is very much missing a leg.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Almost immediately, you sink to the dirt.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s big. His chest bears a cracked and scathed piece of armor. One arm, with a tattered sleeve and no glove, bears a shoulder pauldron with an insignia long since charred away. It seems like the entire left side of his body had been scorched by some sort of blast. His jetpack, mangled and shredded, is the first to go. You unbuckle the straps along his arms with an utterance of apology.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You’re greeted with a low groan. Slight protest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Confusion.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His eyes do not open. Swollen eyelids stay shut.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Clicking your tongue and hollering in Huttese, your lumbering dewback trods closer.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His face is sunburnt, the plains of his sharp cheekbones blistering from the exposure to the sun and sand — though, something ticks in the back of your mind. These burns are fresh. From the last day at least. Suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s a fellow scavenger who’d fallen into the pit.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The jetpack would explain the escape.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You toss the pack down the hill.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You follow it, tripping down the sand towards the side of Scud as you scramble for one of the durasteel sheets. Laying it flat on the hot sand, you wonder how on earth this man had survived this long…. A day at least, judging by the sand swept around him and the burns along his arms and face. How long had he been in The Pit?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Gods above.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The Bo’mar Flats were not a kind place when left to the elements.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You land beside the man once more, this time speaking loudly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am going to help you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You’re not sure if you’re saying it more for yourself or him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s a part of you, as your eyes flick down to the stump of his left leg, that would give anything to turn away. Ride off, forget the gorish scene. Yet, the better part of you knows you’d simply come back come morning and do the same thing you’re doing now.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And then, come daybreak, he may not even be alive.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You tell yourself, as you squat and try and get a good grip, that you’re doing exactly what anyone else would do. But the reality is that’s far from the truth. Out here, it’s eat or be eaten.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With your luck, you’re stumbling into a metaphorical krayt dragon’s nest helping this man.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If only you knew.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You root both your fists in the material around his shoulders, worn enough to show the outline of where armor used to sit. And you pull.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s no easy feat. Even with gravity working in your favor, you’re struggling to haul the large man down the dune. The sand simply drags along, digging him into the dune as you curse in Huttese and spit out profanities sharp enough to make Scud shift on his peds. Your knuckles ache, fingernails having dug half moons into your palms <em>through</em> the material of his under-armor tunic. Landing backwards, you curse. But, you get back up again, and you pull.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It takes ten minutes to move him two meters to the durasteel sled <em>downhill</em>— and even longer to maneuver him onto the steel piece of scavenged material. By the end of it, you’re prying your scarf from your mouth to breath. Sweat tickles the back of your neck as your hands hit your knees and you groan.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Koochoo</em>,” you hiss at yourself in Huttese. Idiot is right. <em>This is stupid. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Throughout this, the wounded man has offered nothing, not a single peep — you wonder if his last ditch hail of his hand was the only bit of energy he had left.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With him now on the makeshift sled, you move towards Scud’s left pack. Inside, you dig out your canteen and a spare bacta pack. The water sloshes around the hollow metal sphere. Once cold from your early hour of embarking, it’s warm to the touch.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s been a hot day.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Overhead, the twin suns have melted into a hazy coral color. They hang low across the horizon, suspended in a flickering bob of heat that dances across the clouds.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You fall to your knees in the sand. You need to move quickly. Soon, the sun will set and getting back to your hut just north of Mos Eisley is an hour’s ride at best.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The lower part of his left leg, from the knee down, is gone. The bleeding had long since stopped, clotted up from the sand and what looks like corrosive burns… Sure enough, the same patterning around his wrists tell you he sure as all kriff has been in the belly of the Great Pit of Carkoon. It’s the stomach acid that has melted the skin together just enough to halt the bleeding along his knee.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You exhale. Short and quick. Then, you pour your water across the limb.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>That</em> earns a loud groan of protest. Good to know he’s still alive.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The bacta is next, squeezed from the age old tube in a glob that lands above the wound. With an iron gut and quick sense of criticality, you rinse your own hands with water, all before holding your breath and pushing the palm-sized amount across the mangled flesh and muscle. You try not to think about the way your own knee twitches, and instead, focus on planting your hand on the man’s chest — for the first time, he gives a true indication he feels it. The man writhes, contorting himself as a painful series of expletives fly from his mouth.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The chest plate buckles slightly, and when you lift your palm, the dirt smeared away shows a small emblem… Tan and green and red. What looks like wheat and a drop of blood…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s familiar, but you can’t remember why. You’ve seen it somewhere. Chewing the inside of your lip, you tear your eyes away and you move on. In a flash, you’ve hauled the linen head wrap from your hair. With the sun setting, you won’t need it as much as he will — keeping the sand out of the clean-enough wound will make a difference once you get him back to your home.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A part of you wonders if this man has any credits at all — truth be told you certainly don’t have enough to cover a visit to the local doctor. As you finish tying off his thigh, you reason that conversation is a bridge you can cross when you get there. For now, let’s just hope you can get him back to your dwelling alive.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Away from this wretched wreck.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>By the time you’re mounted back up on Scud’s back, the suns have begun to dip below the dunes on the farthest horizon — the stars melt as they disappear, casting the shadows of the dunes in inky blacks. Behind Scud, the stranger is dragged, rigged to the saddle by two extending cables originally scavenged off an abandoned pod-racing setup, out by Bestine. The plating he rests on glides across the sand, leaving patterns in the dunes. You crane your neck, turning in the saddle, and frown.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There was certainly a first for everything.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba Fett wakes to the sight of a dirt ceiling.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The stirring confusion of unconsciousness subsides and almost immediately he is roused by pain — then comes the startling panic.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Is he dead?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Where is he?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>What in the hell happened?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>This is not the barge; there is no Luke Skywalker here, nor Solo nor the Wookie... The Pit… He’d fallen in. Yea, yea, he remembers that. But, he got out. Jetpack punctured. Flew him straight into the air. Burns. That’s the pain he feels. Burns? Yes. His back.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His leg. Something feels different. An ache. He tries to move his feet.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba groans, angled features contorting into a pained look as he tries to sit up on the cot; but suddenly, there’s a hand on the center of his chest. Gently, the hand pushes him down to the pillows.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Slowly, dark brown eyes follow the hand. Wrist, arm, shoulder, face.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Headscarf.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The first thing he realizes is that your eyes are beautiful, but soft. There’s kohl lining your eyes, making your stare piercing. Your brows are knotted in concern, and though he cannot make out the words that fall from your lips, he can understand the tone to be gentle. You’re speaking Huttese.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>… Gods damn it all.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The Hutts.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jabba.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Son of bitch was probably dead. He’s sure that the Desilijic Clan will have something to say about that.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba’s eyes slip shut as he exhales.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sleep takes him easily.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When he wakes again, it’s evening. There are candles burning in the room, and once his eyes adjust he can make out your figure through a blanket covering the doorway at the end of the room — through the crack, he can see that you’re cooking over a small stove-top. He is laid up in the bedroom, he realizes, and on the floor across from the cot he lays upon is a pile of pillows.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You must have been watching over him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Instantly, he’s looking for his blaster.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Call it a habit.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The mere act of bending sends pain shooting up his spine; and Boba finds himself gritting his jaw tightly as his knuckles tense and he tries to see any remnants of his armor or pack or weapons.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The commotion summons you in a flash.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>This time, you have no headscarf on; Boba can now see the swell of your lips and the kind slope of your nose. You’re beautiful — his bruised and bloodshot eyes follow you as you glide into the room and duck beneath the patterned blanket separating the bedroom from the kitchenette.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s a plate of food in your hand. A fork and a knife rest on the edge of the painted plate.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Careful,” comes a gentle utterance as you place the food beside his head on the table there, “Take it easy.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your basic is dashed with the light accent of Huttese. The syllables are melodic and gentle. You reach to help him into a sitting position, keen on making sure he’s comfortable —</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Like a sand viper, the man before you has snatched the knife from the plate, swinging his hand quickly with a lethal sense of precision that stuns you silent. The coolness of the durasteel utensil is pressed right to your throat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You can see the muscles in his arms tense, the sharp rise and fall of his bare chest. The blanket across his lap has slipped to his waist. Your jaw tilts upward, expression souring quickly. The kindness in your eyes quickly turns to ice.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When you raise your eyes to meet his, all Boba can see is defiance.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Who are you?” he grits out hoarsely, “And how did I get here?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I <em>found</em> you,” you hiss, words scathing and hot as you raise both hands. There’s a wrinkle forming on the bridge of your nose, giving way to the angered expression flooding your face, “I’m beginning to see why The Great Pit of Carkoon spat you back up.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The tension that builds settles heavily between you both.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And then, Boba Fett lowers the knife.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>whirlybirbs.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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